The Loyalty's Mutual
by Shakespeare's Catamaran
Summary: Sometimes it takes Dean by surprise, the brazen protective ferocity in his little brother's eyes that so brightly mirror his own, and he feels proud and warm and even a little bit safe. And as soon as it crosses his mind he has to look away or call him a bitch because it's Sam's job to host the chick flick moments, not him. Protective Sam oneshots, with a little bromance, too.
1. The Old House

_Dean is always so wrapped up in watching over Sammy that he sometimes forgets that Sam is watching over him, too. Dean knew this, of course, but whereas Dean is always all out there with it, a constant visible alertness, Sam's is more subtle, less obvious to the unfamiliar eye. Sometimes it takes Dean by surprise, the brazen protective ferocity in his little brother's eyes that so brightly mirror his own, and he feels proud and warm and even a little bit safe. And as soon as it crosses his mind he has to look away or call him a bitch because it's Sam's job to host the chick flick moments, not him._

The house that this particular spirit is haunting is in terrible shape. A real ramshackle craphole, to be honest, but they have to find the bones for a salt and burn. By the time the brothers climb the half-there rickety stairs with rotten holes punched through every other board, the ghost has had enough with them creeping around and shows itself. The EMF in Sam's pocket goes nuts, that annoying whine starting up, and with lightning reflexes the ghost is shot full of salt. It lets out a wail and dissipates, and the brothers carry on. The EMF dies down a bit, and Sam pulls it out of his coat, holding it up to the shabby wooden walls as he walks. It doesn't take them even five minutes to find the bones, literally showing through the gaps in the decaying walls, and they salt and burn it without a hitch. Dean dusts his hands, and Sam goes to say something but stops, cocking his head to one side. The skeleton at their feet gives a last little campfire pop, and then Dean hears it.

The EMF starts to squeal again, quietly, and then suddenly it shrieks even louder than before, and Sam turns around to look at Dean. His eyes go wide, and Sam shouts his name and levels his shotgun behind Dean. Dean whirls around and finds himself inches from a shuddering spirit with sloppy black smudges for eyes and a torn up and bloodied pair of overalls. Dean just has time to think about what an ugly bumpkin mother it is before the spirit drops straight through the floor. Everything goes quiet except for the EMF, which is still shrieking up a storm, and Sam groans. "Great. Another one."

The shafts of moonlight streaming through the gaps in the roof are suddenly cloudy with dust particles as the whole building shakes, and Sam and Dean curse under their breath and make for the stairs. At the top step the floor lurches tremendously, and both men go tumbling down the stairs.  
Well, Sam tumbles down. Dean tumbles _through._  
Sam catches himself on the seventh step down and braces himself against the shuddering walls with his sturdy work boots and flat palms just as Dean crashes through a rotten board with all the grace of a riding lawnmower and hits the planks of the first floor below.

And keeps going, all the way to the basement, where- as his luck would have it- what was probably the only sturdy piece of material in the whole structure comes crashing down and pins him to the ground by his legs like a falling tree.

And to top it all off, the stair that he fell through merrily zips down and whacks him right in the solar plexus.

All the air in his lungs promptly skips town. Sam shouts his name from above, and through the wheezing and the black dancing spots in his vision, he sees his brother's silhouette through the holes in the structure. "Dean, hold on!" Sam yells above the rumbling, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to struggle out from under the weight of the column pinning him down. He has to bite his lip to keep from crying out at the pain. One, if not both of his legs are fractured, maybe even broken. The left one feels broken.

A cold puff of stale, rancid air brushes against Dean's ear, and he turns his head to the right to see the eyeless hillbilly yawning its too-wide mouth in his face. He curses and scrabbles for the shotgun just out of reach. He can hear it moaning in his ears and he reaches, twisting just a little farther-  
Sam shouts at the ghost, and Dean looks up to see him standing there, just obscenely tall from this point of view. The ghost hisses and Sam pumps it full of rock salt, and with a sideways swoop of gray it's gone. Dean sighs and winces at the pain in his legs, and he tries to sit up using his elbows and then his palms to brace himself. Sam drops to his knees beside him and puts both palms on the ground, kneeling and looking for a way to get the column off of Dean.

The rumbling starts to fade as the house settles, the ghost no longer shaking it, and one of the doors on the big cabinet in the corner of the basement seems to just give up. It falls straight off its hinges and a dusty human skull bounces out and rolls over to stop right next to Dean's head. Sam doesn't seem to notice, his focus being on getting Dean out from under the column, and Dean has to say his name twice before he pulls splintered fingers out from under the column and sees the remains. Sam gets to his feet and starts the salt and burn, glancing back at Dean every time he gets the chance. He's rushing to finish when the ghost wails again from the other side of what's left of the house.  
"Jesus, this guy can't take a freaking hint," Dean growls, and without looking away from what he's doing Sam kicks the shotgun towards Dean, who snatches it up gratefully and does his best to prepare for when the ghost inevitably shows up to stop the destruction of its remains.

Sam lights the match and holds it up. From above comes a sound like a cracking whip, and both brothers look up.

There's a giant piece of roof hurtling downwards, on a route straight to Dean's face, and he struggles fruitlessly.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the match drop straight onto the pile of bones kicked into the corner, and then something soft and warm is flung on top of him and he realizes that it's Sam just as the roof makes impact.

The bones are burning and Sam screams, his whole body jerking like he's been whipped, and there's a horribly familiar crunching noise like breaking bone. Dean is frozen, terrified, and for a moment he thinks that Sam is dead, but then he feels his brother shaking and the hot, dense panting breaths on his neck.

The fire is still crackling in the corner and there's an ominous splintering noise, and Dean thinks if he never hears another wooden noise again it'll be too soon. Even though he can't see it, he guesses that it's another piece of roof, and Dean starts to scrabble at the floor like a thing possessed, trying to get himself- and Sammy, by extension- out of the way.

The impact goes through Sam and hits Dean in the chest, knocking the wind out of him like some seriously screwed up Newton's cradle. Sam doesn't even scream this time, he just makes this aborted choking noise as he curls around Dean tighter, and Dean wants to shove him off and take his place because _damn it, Sammy, you idiot._

The ghostly wails stop and so do the flames in the corner, and the house stops moving.

Dean wastes no time in trying to get out from under the column again, and he finds that it's significantly lighter now. From under Sam's arm he can see that that second chunk of roof had crashed into the column and snapped it clean in half.

Sammy is shaking and his messy bangs are brushing against the back of Dean's neck, and something keeps dripping onto his cheek that's too dark to be tears. Sam's fingers are curled into claws that are then hooked in the wrinkled leather of his jacket and clutching at his chest and shoulders, and every breath that comes out comes out staggered and hot.

Dean ignores the bone-deep pain in his legs and tears himself free of the column, spinning around but keeping his back flat on the floor, then shuffles out from underneath Sam as gently as he can. He tries to keep his hands from shaking, and he leaves Sam flat on the floor because he's heard that's what you do with people who have spinal injuries.

Dean kneels down by his brother's head and gingerly brushes back the dark brown hair from Sam's face. Sam's eyes are glassy and vague.

"Sam?" He says, and there's no answer. "Sam?!"

Sam takes in a deep shuddering breath and his whole body jumps, his eyes snapping onto Dean. "Dean-" He croaks, and then stops and squeezes his eyes shut.

Dean frantically digs for his cell phone and finds it pretty much destroyed, and growls, dropping what's left of it in the rubble and instead stepping over to the overturned duffel bag, snatching up the rope. Dean takes off his jacket and balls it up as flat as he can, and using that and some debris and the rope, he makes Sam a crude back brace.

Once it's done and on, Sam's awake and at least partially aware, and Dean drops down to his level again.

"Sam, you hear me?"

Sam nods almost imperceptibly, and Dean nods too, maybe faster and harder than he should have because he's damn straight scared out of his mind.

 _I could've died._

Over the course of the next twenty-five minutes, Dean clears a path through the debris and helps Sam stand up and get to the Impala. Sam falls six times and doesn't make a sound. When they finally get to the car Dean flings open the passenger door and reclines the seat way past its limit. The cracking noise it makes tells him that it'll need to be fixed, but Sammy- his Sammy, his stupid, brave little brother- is more important than this car will ever be.

Once he's in the car Dean finds one of the spare cell phones and calls up 911 as Sam shakes, supine in the passenger's seat, bound up with wood and rope and cloth.

As they drive, Sam tries to curl into a ball, and when the brace stops him he lets out a keening noise like betrayal. Dean puts his hand on his brother's until Sam relaxes.

They stay in the hospital for two and a half weeks, and twice Dean has to go stand in the bathroom- the first time when they tell him Sammy might never walk again-

And the second time when they tell him that he'd be okay after all.

Because even though he isn't even conscious there's no way that Dean is going to cry in front of Sammy.

 **A/N: To clear things up because a reviewer brought this to my attention: Dean's legs aren't broken, but probably fractured. And yes, you can walk on fractured and broken bones, it just hurts. Really bad. He's probably in the hospital room, worriedly pacing on crutches. ;w;**


	2. The Idiot

**A/N: I know the whole hostage/robbery situation has been done to death, and done a lot better than this, but sue me.**

Sam had been dozing on and off in the car all day. Dean would glance over and see him rustling through newspapers and making marks with a red Sharpie, and then fifteen minutes later he'd be slumped against the window, mouth barely open, almost snoring but not quite.

Sam's eyes would twitch behind his eyelids, fingers jerking and curling and uncurling, until he'd suddenly jolt awake, looking horrified for just a second, barely even a moment- and then his roaming eyes would fall on Dean, and the tension in his quirked shoulders would dissipate, and then the cycle would repeat itself.

Dean wished he could stop his brother's nightmares. He wanted to help, but every time Dean sidled up to the topic, usually while they were puttering around the motel room right before bed, Sam would clam up until Dean let it go.

They rolled into the parking lot of some diner or other ten miles from the border between Florida and Georgia just after sunset. Jimmy's Diner, maybe Johnny's- Dean had been staring at the highway for a good six hours and didn't care enough to pay much attention to the neon sign above the doorway. He just wanted to get a burger and a cup of coffee that would perk him up enough to make it the last couple hours to the motel.

Sam was asleep when they stopped, and Dean had planned on darting inside and ordering for the both of them and darting back out, but as soon as the Impala's engine went silent he twitched and sat up straight and looked at Dean for a moment before yawning, big and long and loud. "Food?" He said foggily, and Dean grunted an affirmative and stepped out of the car.

Sam followed him into the diner, and they both took seats at the bar. The counter was a bit sticky, but otherwise the place was pretty clean.

A waitress went rushing by, barely balancing three platters of steaming hot diner food, and she slowed briefly in front of Sam and Dean just long enough to toss a quick, rehearsed "be right with you" their way. She dropped off two platters at the booth stuffed with kids and an exhausted looking mother and slid the third onto the table of a man in a trucker's hat and jean jacket. She sped back towards the kitchen with an armful of dirty dishes, and before the door had closed behind her she was already on her way back out, the dishes replaced with a little notepad. She stopped in front of the brothers and took the pencil out from behind her ear, holding it above the paper, and smiled.

"Alright, what can I get for you?" She asked, practiced but cheery, and Dean smiled at her.

"Two cheeseburgers and a coffee, black," Dean replied, and waited for Sam to order something to drink. Finally he nudged his brother with his knee, and his eyes snapped open.

"Uh, iced tea," Sam said, and the waitress nodded and scribbled down something fairly illegible.

"Anything else?" She asked, but she must've known the answer, because she had already tucked the pencil behind her ear again and zipped back out to the tables by the time Dean said no.

A couple minutes passed, and Dean occupied himself by watching her crisscross the room. She's sure moving fast for such an empty diner, he thought, and Sam stood up.

"Be right back," He said, and headed for the little hallway below the 'Restrooms' sign.

Dean drummed his fingers on the somewhat sticky counter.

The bell on the door rang just as the waitress slipped back into the kitchen, and she emerged with their order and headed for Dean.

Then she stopped, and it was odd because so far she hadn't been still, not once- but she froze, staring behind Dean, and he got an ominous sort of feeling. The platter of burgers and hot coffee in her hand fell to the ground with a crash.

The barrel of a gun came into view to his left, a few seats down. He turned his head to look.

Some short guy in a ski mask and a bomber's jacket much too large for him was holding a gun straight at the waitress, twitching every so often.

For a moment, nobody moved or said anything at all. The mom was standing at the drink fountain, horrified, and across the room her rowdy kids had shut their mouths. The kitchen door opened, and a stocky guy in his thirties poked his head out.

"Mandy, what-" He began, and the idiot turned the gun in his direction.

"Everybody shut up and get on the ground!" The idiot shouted, waving the gun haphazardly around the diner, and as everyone else jumped to obey, Dean's eyes just slid over to the restrooms. "Not you," He snapped at Mandy. "You, get me the money out of the register."

Dean still hadn't moved, and the twitchy idiot shouted at him again and he finally slid down to the floor. _Sam._

Mandy walked to the register, white as a sheet and trembling.

"Wallets and phones and valuables, hand 'em over," He said next, and everybody scrambled to empty their pockets. Dean casually tossed his wallet to the ground.

The three kids were huddled up just a few feet from Dean, and the oldest one- maybe twelve- had the other two pulled up against her, her hands covering their mouths, but as soon as she let go to frantically dump the contents of her mother's purse, the youngest one- her hair held up in twirls secured with butterfly clips- started wailing.

Sam had to have heard everything by now. Where the hell was he?

The noise seemed to ramp up the idiot's rage. "Shut that brat up!" He snarled. The oldest kid was trying unsuccessfully to muffle the noise behind her hands. The guy stalked over and pulled his hand back like he was going to hit them- the kids. Toddlers, really.

The mom was shrieking, begging him to stop, and the guy spun and shot in her direction.

The bullet grazed her arm and she gritted her teeth and clutched at her arm, but never took her eyes off of her children.

Dean stood up and stepped in between the idiot and the kids, and the guy drew up short, looking astounded that someone would dare to challenge him.

"Back off," He said, low and serious, and the guy was beginning to look so furious that Dean thought that the top of his head might blow off. He was probably high, come to think of it. His eyes were bloodshot enough, staring through that ski mask.

"I'll shoot you and the brats," The idiot said, and Dean probably shouldn't have, but the guy was threatening kids and being an asshole and so he spat in his face.

The guy made some incomprehensible noise and tore the ski mask off of his head, revealing a gaunt, hollow eyed face positively shuddering with tics. Behind him, Dean could see Mandy standing in front of the register, her hands hovering above the open tray, frozen. Her eyes darted over to the restrooms, and the man in the trucker hat snatched up his phone and started punching numbers into it behind his back.

The guy slurred something threatening through his rage, gesturing at the ground, but Dean didn't budge, and so he took a step back and fired.

The bullet whizzed past Dean's ear and embedded itself into the floor just inches from the nearest kid, and everybody flinched but Dean. Mandy shrieked. The mom and her kids screamed.

And then something dark and massive emerged from the back of the diner, took two steps, and stopped directly behind the idiot with the gun.

Sam, _finally._

The eyes of every person in the room rested on Sam, and a moment later the idiot took the hint and turned around.

Sam looked absolutely terrifying, a silent towering giant with broad shoulders and furious, burning, dark-ringed eyes, and Dean chuckled, perhaps a bit inappropriately.

The idiot did the first smart thing maybe in his life and dropped the gun.

Before it hit the ground, Sam kicked the guy's legs out from under him. With one hand he grabbed both wrists, and with the other he latched onto the idiot's stringy hair and slammed him to the ground so hard that the building shuddered and you could hear silverware clattering and the guy's hook nose practically disintegrated. Sam planted a boot in the center of his back and kept it there, then leaned over and said something in the guy's ear that made him whimper.

Dean kicked the gun away, then squatted down in front of the idiot and looked him in the eyes and grinned, letting his hands dangle casually between his knees. The would-be robber was gushing tears or blood from most of the orifices in his face. The mom scrambled to her feet and raced over to her kids.

It was completely, utterly silent, save for the whimpers from the idiot pinned to the ground. Dean strolled over to Mandy, still standing by the register. "Hey, you got any rope back there?" He asked, and she just stared at him. "Rope? To tie him up with?" He tried again, and the cook got to his feet and stumbled into the kitchen.

"I- Uh- 911," The trucker hat guy stammered, getting to his feet and removing his hat. "I called- Them. 911."

The cook came out with a plastic bag of off-white zip ties and handed them to Dean. "Here," He stammered.

"Even better," Dean said, and crossed back over to where Sam was boring holes into the robber's soul with his eyes alone. He trussed the guy up like a pig, and as soon as Sam let go he changed.

He hunched over just a bit, dropping his intimidating height by an inch or two, ducked his head so he was perpetually looking through his bangs, and was suddenly as harmless as a person could possibly be.

He stepped over the idiot and around Dean and knelt down by the family, eyes wide and concerned, and he said something quiet to the mother and she nodded her head.

Mandy sort of wandered her way over to the idiot and stared down at him for a moment. Then she gave a sort of shake, and the fear vanished from her body language and she gave him a swift kick in the ribs. "Asshat," She spat, and Dean smirked.

Dean bent over and picked up his wallet and turned to the fuming waitress. "How much do we owe you?" Dean asked, his fingers already pinched on a wrinkled ten, and she looked at him like he was dumber than the guy lying at their feet.

"What are you talking about?" She said incredulously. "Put your wallet up."

"You sure?" Dean said, but he knew the answer already.

"Yes, I'm damn sure!" She sounded offended, somehow, and crossed her arms.

The mom was stammering something through tears at Sam, and he nodded and took her hand and gently helped her stand. Her kids immediately latched onto his legs, and Dean saw a faint smile crinkle the corners of his little brother's eyes.

By the time the ambulances arrived outside, the cook had whipped up two hot burgers and put them in a to-go box, and Mandy had pressed two styrofoam cups into Dean's hands- one with tea, one with coffee- and again she refused to take a penny from either of the boys.

"I won't take money from a couple of heroes. Do I look that stingy to you?" She said. "You boys come back here anytime, and you can have all the coffee and tea I can pour down your gullets." A glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "But the food ain't free. This isn't a charity." She smiled then, and her teeth weren't exactly shining white but it was a pretty smile anyway, and Sam thanked her rather softly.

"I might just take you up on that offer," Dean said, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the adrenaline oozing out of Sam and the weariness creeping back in, so he said a quick goodbye and led Sam out the back door and into the car. He'd rather not have a run-in with any cops right now.

Dean pulled out onto the highway and laughed, taking a gulp of his perfectly warmed coffee. "Holy crap, Sammy, I thought he was gonna wet himself."

He didn't receive a response, and when he looked over, Sam was asleep again, face pressed against the window like nothing had happened at all.

* * *

They checked in at the motel, and Sam kicked his boots off and stripped down to his undershirt before collapsing into bed on top of the covers. Dean managed to tug the blankets out from underneath him and cover him up before getting into his own bed.

He wasn't going to bring up the nightmares tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Dean made sure his knife was under his pillow and turned towards Sam.

"'Night, Dean," Sam muttered, and closed his eyes. Dean reached over and turned off the lamp but didn't lie down.

The moonlight was seeping through the thin curtains, turning everything a monochrome bluish-gray, and Dean waited forty minutes or so for the nightmares to come, but Sam just snored on and drooled a little, too.

So Dean Winchester finally closed his tired eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

"How'd you sleep?" Dean asked the next morning as he laced up his boots, a little wary of the answer.

Sammy smiled, big and wide, and it reached his eyes for the first time in a while. "Like a baby," He said, and Dean smiled back.

 **A/N: It's 2 AM. I better wake up to some spicy reviews, lovelies; never mind the fact I'm 2 years late on this story.**


	3. The Stomach Flu

It was still dark when Sam's eyes snapped open, and his hand wrapped around the knife under his pillow. His eyes darted first to Dean's bed- empty, blankets half dragged to the floor- and then he heard the sound that had woken him up, and he spotted the light spilling out from under the bathroom door.

He let go of the knife and stood, then knocked softly on the bathroom door.

There was a beat of silence, and Dean groaned. "Didn't mean to wake you up," He said, and the echo to his voice confirmed Sam's suspicions that his head was hovering over the toilet bowl.

Dean rarely got sick. In fact, Sam could only remember it happening twice- he got a cold when Sam was four and the stomach flu when he was seven.

But when Dean did get sick, he got _sick_.

That cold when Sam was four lasted for three weeks. Three solid weeks of sneezing and sleeping and a horrible rattling cough. Sam had had to sleep in a different bed, and all night Dean would cough and the sound would keep him up, but Dean would always reassure him in the morning with a smile.

The stomach flu was even worse. It didn't last as long, only three days, but Sam and Dean's room smelled like sick for weeks afterwards. Dean was non-stop in and out of the bathroom, and he was burning hot to the touch, and John had even postponed his hunt for one night just to keep an eye on him.

Sam had really hoped that he'd never have to see Dean get sick like that again, because it was always unpleasant for the both of them.

He opened the door, and Dean scowled.

"C'mon, man. Gimme some privacy."

"Nah," Sam said, then took a step forward and bent down, reaching out to feel Dean's forehead.

The older brother scowled even harder and leaned away from Sam, and Sam just gave him a stern sort of look until he grumbled out a sigh and moved back.

Sam put the back of his hand on Dean's forehead. Hot.

"Fever," Sam muttered, standing up straight.

"I coulda told you that," Dean said, spitting in the toilet before sitting back to rest on his knees. "I'll be fine. We gotta go to the library tomorrow, right? Research?" He gave a weak smile, getting to his feet, and Sam's mouth flattened into a line.

"I'll go. You're staying here until you get better."

The scowl crawled back onto Dean's face, but when he opened his mouth to argue he froze, then spun around and bent over the toilet again.

"What time is it?" He asked miserably when he was done, and Sam glanced at the red numbers on the bedside table.

"Half-past three," Sam said, and then his eyebrows lowered a bit. "How long have you been in here?"

Dean wiped his mouth with a bit of toilet paper and stood up. "Since two," He said, and pressed the lever on the toilet. "But I'm good now."

Sam sighed. "No, you aren't. You're not going anywhere for at least a day."

Dean returned to his bed, trying to put as much nonchalance into his movements as he could, but he was so pale that it just looked wrong.

Sam found the little motel trash bin under the sink in the bathroom and put a bag in it, then placed it next to Dean's bed before heading for the door. Dean opened one eye. "Where're you going?"

Sam pulled on some jeans, then shoved his boots on. "Gas station to get you some medicine. I won't be long." He stood up from the bed and patted his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and headed for the door.

"Sam, come on. I'm fine," Dean said weakly.

"I won't be long," Sam repeated, snatching the keys off of the table. Dean looked defeated and slowly pulled the trash bin onto his lap.

"At least take your gun," He said, and Sam tucked his Taurus into his waistband.

The sky was just barely beginning to transition from pitch black to a lighter indigo when Sam pulled out of the parking lot. He adjusted the rearview mirror and grimaced at the state of his hair, and as soon as he was on the road he sort of haphazardly smoothed it down with one hand.

Sam parked in the small lot of the nearest gas station and got out, and the bright fluorescent lights under the covering made him squint a little.

The store smelled faintly of floor cleaner, and when the bell above the door rang, the teenager at the checkout counter snapped to attention. Sam glanced at him, and when they made eye contact the kid went stiff and sort of pale.

Sam ignored him and made a beeline for the medicine aisle.

He found a cheap yellow thermometer and a box of Kaopectate sort of wedged behind a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and ended up grabbing all three. He also got a six pack of orange gatorade and a box of soda crackers. He walked up to the teenager and dumped everything on the counter, then brought up a hand to rub at his eyes.

Back at Stanford, Jess had gotten the stomach flu once. It was pretty bad, and Sam had skipped class for a few days to stay with her.

The memory was a little fuzzy, but he remembered that she'd told him to go buy crackers and gatorade and electrolyte popsicles and that throughout the whole miserable ordeal she'd still been as beautiful as ever. He smiled a little wistfully behind his palm, and the teenager cleared his throat. Sam looked down at him.

The kid was still looking pretty freaked out for some reason, but Sam tried to give him a reassuring smile and left a twenty on the counter. The kid handed him his bag and Sam turned to go, and when he caught his reflection in the glass and suddenly realized why the teen had been acting so weird.

Sam was wearing a ratty grey undershirt and worn jeans. His broad, imposing shoulders weren't hidden under a jacket like they usually were, and his tired eyes and unkempt hair gave him the look of a manic giant. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Kid probably thought he was going to get robbed at four in the morning.

When Sam got back to the motel room, Dean hadn't moved from his spot on the bed, but he had gotten noticeably paler, and he looked up from the trash bin. Sam plopped down on his own bed and put the bag beside him, kicking off his boots. "Kaopectate or Pepto-Bismol?"

"Does it look like I really give a shit?" Dean croaked, putting one hand over his eyes, and Sam gave a tired smirk and pulled out the little rumpled box of Kaopectate tablets. He glanced at the instructions, then popped two of them out of the foil. Dean stretched out his palm and quirked his fingers.

"Hold on a second," He said, and yanked one of the gatorades out of the plastic rings. "Sit up."

Dean widened his fingers and peered at Sam through the hand over his eyes. "What?"

Sam stared at him expectantly. "Sit up. I got Gatorade."

"Is it the orange kind?"

"Only kind they had."

Dean scooched up until his back was against the flimsy headboard and made a noncommittal sort of noise, and Sam handed him the pills and the Gatorade. Dean cracked the cap off of the Gatorade and downed the pills with a big chug of orange electrolytes, and his face screwed up.

Sam snorted. "What? You don't like orange?"

Dean looked at him and slumped down again. "No. It's just that the inside of my mouth makes everything taste like shit."

Sam tried to bite back a yawn but it forced its way out of his mouth anyway, and he hid it behind his arm in a stretch- but apparently it wasn't enough to fool Dean.

"You need to go back to sleep," Dean said, and Sam shook his head. "We've been interviewing for days, and you've barely gotten any rest."

"Yeah, and you got even less than I did," Sam retorted. "Not a chance. I'll see what research I can do from here."

Dean either didn't have a rebuttal, or he was hit with a wave of nausea, because he groaned and clutched the trash bin a little tighter and squeezed his eyes shut.

Sam took the opportunity to let loose a second, even bigger yawn, and massaged his eyes with the heels of his palms. He got up from the bed and dropped into the rickety chair and opened his laptop. While it booted up, he turned and used a couple fingers to peek out of the curtains at the gradually brightening sky.

His computer unexpectedly started blaring the startup noise, and he winced and stabbed the mute key, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. His brother hadn't moved, but there was a muscle in his jaw twitching quite visibly.

Sam eventually tore his gaze away from Dean and back to his laptop screen.

The website for the town library was horribly outdated, and the web designer who created it had apparently just sat down and drunkenly mashed keys until he thought it looked okay. Sam spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to navigate the damn thing before just giving up and sliding his hand down his jaw with a sigh.

Back door it is, then.

Sam's program had just started to check the library's security system for weak points when he heard something peculiar- a light, sharp sort of clacking noise. It took him a moment, but when he recognized what it was he got to his feet and crossed over to Dean's bed.

His brother was curled up on his side, asleep, thankfully, but his hands were clutching at the pillow and his teeth were chattering up a storm. At some point Dean had put the trash bin beside the bed, and Sam pursed his lips at the contents and made a note to change the bag out soon.

Sam bent over just a bit and touched Dean's forehead as gently as he could. He was really burning up now, even hotter than before, and as soon as Sam took his hand away Dean's eyes fluttered open.

"Your fever's getting worse," Sam said quietly, and it looked like Dean was trying to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering.

Sam grabbed the blankets, all bunched at the foot of the bed, and pulled them up and over his brother. Dean seemed to relax a little, and Sam was about to ask if that was any better but Dean interrupted him by shoving half his torso off of the bed to give a big technicolor yawn into the trash bin. He almost missed, but Sam saw that it was basically just Gatorade and stomach bile.

When he laid back, he was shivering again, and Sam made sure the covers were over him again before heading for the bathroom.

He found the softest of the small, scratchy motel towels and ran it under the water, then folded it up and grabbed another trash bag from under the sink. He put the bag under his arm and filled up one of the provided styrofoam cups with a mouthful of water, then headed back into the main room.

When he got back to Dean's side, he put the bag and the towel on the table and tapped Dean on the shoulder. His eyes opened, dull and tired, and Sam offered him the cup.

"Nothing's staying down, Sam," Dean muttered, and Sam shook his head.

"Just swish and spit. Get the taste out of your mouth."

Dean spent a decent amount of time swirling the water in his mouth before spitting it out with a sour look on his face.

Sam put the cup on the table and picked up the towel this time. "It's going to be cold, okay? But your fever has got to go down."

"This is great," Dean said, eyes barely open. "Just great. I love getting mother-henned by my dork of a brother."

Sam laid the towel on his forehead and his eyes snapped open. "Fuck, that's cold," He growled, and Sam sent him a look.

"I said it would be. It'll help, though."

"Yeah. Alright." Dean just looked like he wanted to get back to sleep, so Sam swapped out the bags in the trash bin and was careful not to get too close to the full one.

He tied it off and held it up, looking around the room, and for lack of a better place to put it he just tossed it behind the scraggly rose bush outside the door and resolved to find a dumpster later.

Finally he headed back to his computer.

The newspapers they needed- articles from the Tolfield Herald- were only available as physical copies at the library. No digital copies available, although he was helpfully informed that they were already starting the process of digitizing the oldest papers.

Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, then stopped and pulled his hands out, rubbing the tips of his fingers together. Greasy. Ugh.

He half-closed the laptop and got up, tiptoeing over to his duffel and grabbing a change of clothes. Quick shower. Five minutes, and he'd be back out to keep an eye on Dean.

The water pressure was kind of okay, but try as he might he couldn't get anything much hotter than lukewarm to come out of the shower head. Not that he expected anything less from a motel of this quality.

Sam turned the water off when he was finished and was just about to pull his shirt on when he heard a crash and a thud from outside the door. He wasted no time in bursting into the room, ready for anything.

Dean was on the floor by the window, clutching onto one of the pulled-back curtains, and the floor lamp nearby had fallen over.

"Dean, what happened?" Sam said, hurrying over to his brother. "You okay?"

He held out a hand, and Dean let go of the curtain and grabbed Sam's arm, pulling himself to his feet. Dean's hands were still burning hot.

"Yeah, just tripped, I'm fine," Dean answered, looking anything but. He gestured vaguely in the direction of Sam's computer. "What'd you find?"

"Nope," Sam said, and crossed his arms. "You're not going to do this. You're going to sleep this off."

Dean splayed one hand on the table and tried to discreetly support his entire body weight on the fragile wooden structure, but it squeaked emphatically, and Sam just intensified his gaze.

"The newspapers, right?" Dean said.

"If I tell you, you'll get back in bed?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean agreed, and Sam was about to answer when someone walked past the motel window.

Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but when Dean had tripped and fallen he'd yanked the curtain aside, and the interior of the motel room was now exposed. Entirely.

There was a woman, maybe thirty, holding a tattered briefcase and standing outside the window. She was staring, eyes wide, and she made eye contact with Sam just as Dean turned to see what his brother was staring at.

Sam lunged forward and snapped the curtains closed just in time to catch Dean under the arms as he collapsed, limp.

"Come on," Sam huffed. "Let's get back to bed."

Dean didn't move, and the worry that had been bubbling consistently in Sam's chest started churning. He put his hand on Dean's forehead again. Even worse. Noticeably worse.

He remembered the thermometer and stretched as far as he could and just managed to snag it off the bedside table without having to dump Dean on the floor.

He tore the box open and turned it on and shoved it in Dean's mouth.

Sam squinted at the digital readout as it climbed and climbed and climbed and started beeping at 105.

Okay, that's it. Shower time.

Sam half-carried, half-dragged his unconscious brother to the bathroom and bundled him into the shower, clothes and all. He knew it'd be really uncomfortable, but a nice room temperature shower should help his fever go down.

He made sure all of Dean's limbs were inside the shower and then spun the knob up as hot as it would go.

So, lukewarm, pretty much.

As soon as the water hit him Dean flailed and spluttered, and sadly Sam hadn't backed up in time and received a solid punch to the jaw.

"Oh, sunuva- Jesus Christ, Sam, what are you doing?" Dean shouted, and Sam sat down on the toilet lid, angling himself so Dean couldn't see the spreading red mark on his jaw.

"You were at 105," He said. "That's really dangerous."

"No kidding?" Dean snapped, fumbling for the shower knob on the wall, but Sam smacked his hand away.

"Wait just a few minutes. We have to break your fever," Sam insisted, and Dean gave him a petulant look. "When we're done, you can go get back in the bed-"

"I don't want to get back in the fucking bed, I want to go and work this hunt, Jesus Christ this water is so goddamn cold-"

"Look, Dean, the library has the articles we need, just not digitally. I'm going to go and check them out."

"I'm coming with you," Dean said.

"You just collapsed."

Dean went silent for a few moments, blinking away the shower spray.

"You said this would break my fever, right?"

"It might."

"It better."

Sam finally put his shirt on and left Dean in the bathroom to change and brush his teeth and went back to his computer, glancing at a map of Tolfield and the library.

Dean came half-swaggering out of the bathroom, looking almost like a parody of himself, pale and wobbly, and Sam raised an eyebrow.

Dean snatched the box of crackers off of the bedside table and was fumbling with the package when he paused and stared at Sam. "What the hell happened?"

"Here?" Sam asked, pointing to the sore spot on his jaw, and Dean nodded, looking beyond concerned. "You caught me in the jaw when I turned on the water."

Dean started radiating glassy-eyed guilt, and Sam frowned and got up. "Don't worry about it," He said at the same time that Dean said "Sorry, Sammy".

Sam shook his head softly and pushed him gently back towards his bed. Dean finally managed to open the crackers once he was lying down, and Sam made sure that there was a Gatorade and the television remote within Dean's reach before he went back to his computer again.

The little clock in the corner of the laptop told him that it was just approaching 9:30. The library had been open since nine, but Sam really didn't want to leave Dean here alone again. At least, not until he was sure that Dean's temperature had gone down.

With a familiar staticky pop, the old television turned on. Sam didn't bother to look, but he could hear as the channels flipped from weather to golf to news to true crime until Dean finally settled on something that involved frequent explosions.

Sam rubbed his tired eyes and stared at his screen like it might give him something to do. Until he could get to those newspapers, they'd hit a brick wall.

"When does the library open?" Dean asked, and Sam turned to look at him.

"It opened a half hour ago," He answered, and Dean sighed and fished another cracker out of the package, looking down at it with a resigned look in his eyes.

"You should go, then," The older Winchester said, and Sam was about ready to refuse when Dean continued. "If the deaths happen every three years, then we only have a few days to get this taken care of. You shouldn't be wasting your time-"

"I'm not wasting my time," Sam interrupted, bristling. "You're sick."

Dean groaned. "Yeah, I know. And I'll be fine on my own for two hours or so. Trust me," Dean said. looking him straight in the eyes, and Sam chewed the inside of his lip in thought. "I'll call you if I need anything, all right?"

There was a pause as Sam mulled it over.

"One hour, okay? I'll only be an hour. Maybe less," He finally blurted out, forcing himself to get to his feet before he changed his mind. Dean nodded, a tiny triumphant smile breaking out on his face.

Sam was almost out the door when he paused to turn back. "And you'll call if anything happens, right?"

Dean gave him a lazy thumbs up, and Sam closed the door and headed for the Impala.

* * *

Turns out that not many people asked to see real newspapers these days.

The man at the desk had looked at him a little funny, but he'd been polite nonetheless. With the assistance of another, younger woman, Sam finally got ahold of the newspapers he needed.

They were crammed in a somewhat organized manner into off-white crates, and when he yanked the first paper out, a billow of dust exploded out of the crate. The salt and pepper haired man a few seats down sneezed and gave him a half-hearted sort of glare before he sneezed again, and Sam just replied with an apologetic quirk of a smile.

He ignored the chairs and chose to stand over the small table that was gradually being covered by old, yellowing newspapers.

He was searching for the articles from the past few years when a few similar ones caught his eye, dated as far back as '78- more slit throats, bodies arranged and missing the eyes, every three years. All kids, younger than 12, both genders. He bit the inside of his lip again. This was bigger than they'd thought.

When he started rummaging through another box, an even bigger cloud of dust escaped, and the pepper haired man got up and seemingly glared at Sam and his newspapers before leaving altogether.

Half an hour had passed by the time he had collected the papers he needed, and he immediately scooped them up and located the copy machine.

There was only one available for use, and it was a bit outdated and slow. There was already some college kid with a satchel and a scrawny moustache using it to copy pages from a journal.

What felt like an eternity passed before the kid finally finished up and left, and Sam laid down the newspaper article- first of twelve- and pressed copy.

The printer scanned the page and then began to make a worrying sort of hum and click, and then it gave him a beeping paper jam alert.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, allowing one hand to curl tensely into a fist.

"Hi, having some troubles there?" The young woman from earlier piped up suddenly, and it startled Sam enough that he spun around to face her and nearly punched her in the gut.

He calmed his body language from 'spooked Hunter' to 'mildly frustrated civilian' and smiled. "You again," He said.

"Me again," She chirped. "Printer jam on you? It does this all the time," She continued conversationally, bending over to pop open the casing and peer inside the printer. In what seemed to be a practiced maneuver, she wiggled the crumpled paper free and snapped the casing closed again.

Sam glanced at the wall clock as she tossed the paper into the recycling bin. It'd been forty minutes since he'd left Dean in the motel room.

"Hey," The girl said, eyes flicking briefly between him and the clock, and Sam looked back at her. "We're not closing anytime soon. In fact, we just opened." She smiled wide.

"I know," He said, trying to sound conversational. "I'm just in a bit of a rush."

She paused and seemed to consider something. "Look," She said quietly, almost conspiratorially. "Just between you and me, we have another printer in the back that's actually from this decade. I can get these done in no time."

"That'd be great," Sam answered. "Really."

She beamed like she'd accomplished something. "No problem!" She pulled the first article off of the printer and held it in her hands. "So just these pages, then?"

Sam nodded as she took them from his hands and tapped them on the table to somewhat straighten them out.

"Be right back," She said, and then scurried behind the desk and into a back room.

Sam found a chair and finally sat down, resting his chin in his hand. After a minute or two he pulled out his phone. No messages. So everything's fine.

But what if everything's not fine? What if there are no messages because Dean fell and hit his head and is now sleeping on a concussion?

He knew that his worrying was probably irrational- after all, they'd stuffed the room to the gills with wards. Nothing supernatural was getting in.

He considered calling, fiddling with the buttons for a bit longer, and then the girl came out again with the newspapers and the copies. She was still smiling as she handed him the copies, the stack fastened with a paper clip.

"Thanks again," Sam said, and she nodded, ponytail bobbing, as he flipped through the stack to make sure he had everything he needed.

"Of course," She answered, but he was already leaving, staring straight ahead and swinging the keys to the Impala on his finger, worst-case scenarios skittering through his mind.

Sam tucked the papers into his jacket as he crossed the parking lot and slid into the driver's seat.

He turned the key in the ignition, and suddenly that itching anxiety doubled. Something was wrong. He knew it.

Sam pulled out his phone, hitting the first speed dial button as his other hand gripped the steering wheel.

The phone rang, and each second it went unanswered, he came closer and closer to a full blown panic. He didn't know why he was so certain, but he was.

Maybe Dean wasn't picking up because he was sleeping.

Sam hung up and tried again.

He kept trying, not bothering to leave any messages, until he pulled up to the motel. He parked over the line and nearly tumbled out of the car, heading for the door, motel key in his hand. Through the window he could see most of the room, curtains half-ripped from the curtain rod, Dean's bed sheets scattered everywhere, lamp on the floor, no Dean.

He could hear something happening inside- no voices, just a faint sort of thumping- and he unlocked the door and burst inside.

The door to the bathroom was opened just a crack, but he could see and hear the movement inside.

Sam knew what a fight sounded like.

He rammed the door open, and took it all in within the span of a second.

Dean was backed into the corner of the shower, his arms over his head, blood everywhere, vomit on his shirt and the floor, and there was some guy holding a knife standing there.

As the guy turned to face Sam, a volatile mixture of horror and rage and guilt went racing through his veins and he could feel every muscle tense. His heart beat ramped up even further, and the guy had just enough time to look surprised before Sam slapped his hands over both of the guy's ears, as hard as he could, and the man screamed and put his hands up to his head, dropping the knife.

Before it hit the ground, Sam kneed him on the leg, right on the joint, and he collapsed, clutching his ears.

The part of Sam that had been trained to be an efficient fighter told him to grab the bastard's head and slam it into the ceramic countertop, but then he spotted Dean, arms now lowered, and he saw the blossoming bruises and the blood and the pain.

So instead, he hauled the guy back to his feet by his collar and socked him in the jaw. His head lolled to the side for a second, and as soon as he picked it up Sam hit him again, and then in the ribs. He felt one or two of them crunch, and as the guy wheezed Sam finally grabbed his head and slammed it into the countertop.

With a thud the guy dropped like a rock, unconscious, and Sam picked up the knife and flung it out the door and then stepped over him and turned his attention to his brother.

Dean was using one hand to brace himself against the wall, still unstable, and that toxic anger pulsing through his veins all drained away and Sam moved over to help him.

Dean was collapsing as Sam reached him, and he ended up draping Dean's arm over his shoulder and leading him out of the bathroom.

Sam laid him down on the bed, then rushed out to the Impala and grabbed the first aid kit and a coil of rope. He slammed the car door, then hurried back to Dean, closing the door to the motel room and drawing the tattered curtains as well.

Sam sort of shoved the guy on the bathroom floor away from the counter with his foot and quickly tied his hands and feet, making sure the rough rope bit into the skin. After gagging the guy with the used washrag on the floor of the shower, he searched around for some clean towels, grabbing up the last one in the cabinet and heading back out to the room.

He went back to the bed and Dean took the towel and sat up a bit, wiping the blood and other unpleasant stuff from his face.

"I never should have left, I'm so sorry," Sam croaked, rubbing his hands over his eyes, and Dean shook his head.

"No, I made you go," Dean rasped, and when he took the towel away from his face he was grinning. "Nice job taking care of that guy, by the way."

A watery smile made its way onto Sam's lips, and he lowered himself to sit cross legged on the other side of the bed as the adrenaline left him. "Thanks," He said, and pulled the first aid kit onto the pillow beside him.

"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked as Sam handed him a wet cotton ball, which he started dabbing onto the shallow knife slice on his cheekbone.

Sam waited for Dean to move his hand away before closing the wound with a couple butterfly bandages. "I don't have a clue. Hold on."

He got up and went back to the bathroom. Sam bent over and fished a brown leather wallet out of the unconscious man's khakis, and as his eyes passed over the guy's face he paused. That face. He knew that face, and that salt and pepper hair.

"It's Calvin Gordie, born 1958," He read from the man's driver's license as he walked back into the main room. He dropped the wallet on the bed and unzipped Dean's duffel, frowning. "He was in the library while I was looking through the newspapers, and he left before me. He must've come straight here." He pulled out a shirt and did a surreptitious smell test before handing it to Dean.

Dean replaced his dirty shirt with the proffered one, then picked up the discarded wallet and started rifling through the credit cards and folded receipts, pocketing the cash.

"You think he was possessed?" Sam muttered, and Dean shook his head.

"He couldn't've gotten in here if he was. He came through the door and crossed a salt line." Dean squinted closely at the wallet, then wiggled his fingers into a little hidden seam and pulled out a seemingly never ending accordion of photos. "Guy sure has a lot of kids," He said, then flipped over the plastic strip. "That's weird."

"What?" Sam asked, leaning forward to peer at the pencil marks on the back of each photo.

"It's just dates and ages and colors. No names."

Sam flipped the strip over again and glanced at a few of the faces, then patted down his jacket and pulled out the copies from the library. "Every three years?"

Dean nodded, and then it dawned on him. "Aw, really?"

Sam finally found what he was looking for and held up the photo of a little dark haired girl with a pink dress next to her obituary picture. On the back of her picture was pencilled '1987 / 10 yrs / green'.

Date of death. Age. Eye color.

Going through the copies, they matched up most of the deaths to the dates and ages and faces of the kids in the pictures.

"So it wasn't anything supernatural- it was just a guy?" Dean said, sounding almost disbelieving. " _That_ guy?"

"He must've heard we were asking around about the deaths. I don't know how he found us, though," Sam said, rubbing his jaw.

"All these kids," Dean muttered, looking at the photo strip. His fingers tensed, and he got up and stomped to the bathroom, unsteady but determined. Calvin Gordie was just starting to come around, and Dean grabbed him by the collar and sat him up against the cabinets. "You killed them?" He snapped, and Gordie stared. Dean yanked the rag out of his mouth and asked him again, lower and angrier, and Sam waited just behind Dean's shoulder, ready to catch him if he fell again.

"Killed who?" Gordie slurred, and Dean held up the photo strip.

"These kids," Dean growled, and Gordie's eyes slid over the photos. For a moment, nothing happened, until he grinned slowly, like a shark, his teeth yellow under the blood.

"Lotta fun, they were. Soft eyes. I used spoons." Gordie laughed and red spittle sprayed from his mouth. "Baby spoons, for the littlest ones." He laughed even harder after that line, and Dean picked up the rag and shoved it back in his mouth. Sam almost wanted to kick the guy in the ribs again, but Dean did it for him, and Calvin Gordie choked behind the rag.

Dean spat on the prone man and left the bathroom.

* * *

While Sam brought all of their things to the car, Dean dialed 911 on the motel phone and left it off the hook, wrote them a note on the motel paper, then left the photo strip and the newspaper articles on the bed.

Sam locked the door and tossed the motel keys into the bushes as Dean got into the passenger's seat.

"You called them?" Sam asked as he backed the Impala out of the parking lot and eased it onto the road. Dean nodded, leaning his chair back a bit. "How are you feeling?"

"Not so sick anymore. But my face hurts."

Sam glanced at his brother, then back to the road, then he reached over and put his hand on Dean's forehead.

Dean swatted his hand away.

"Your temperature is down again. That's good."

Dean grunted an affirmative.

"How many?" Dean asked.

A moment passed.

"Ten," Sam said quietly. "One every year, since 1978."

Dean rubbed a rough hand over his eyes. "That fucker."

"We stopped him before he got anyone this time, though."

"Yeah, I know."

Both brothers stared at the road. A few police cars raced past, sirens blaring.

"Still wished we'd killed him," Dean said gruffly, and Sam couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Sam set up a Google alert for the name Calvin Gordie, and it went off a week later, as a healthy Dean snarfed down a cheeseburger in a diner.

Sam picked his head up from where he'd been resting it on his fist and smacked Dean on the arm. "Look, look." He spun his laptop around, and Dean peered at the screen.

"Tolfield Serial Killer Case Closed After 30 Years," Dean read out loud, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "The notorious serial killer Calvin Gordie was finally caught after a 911 call led police to his location." Dean looked up. "That's a nice way to put it. We served that guy up on a silver platter, tenderized and everything."

Sam turned his laptop back to face him again. He skimmed the rest of the article. "He's getting life, no parole."

"That's great," Dean said around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "But I think I would've preferred that sick fuck get the death penalty."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sam said absently, bookmarking the news article, and Dean made a face.

"Don't mother me, Sam," Dean retorted, and shoved the last bite into his mouth with a ridiculously giddy grin.

* * *

 **A/N: This one got out of hand. It also went through extensive rewrites so there may be inconsistencies, but I think I fixed them all. I'm not good at plot so it's pretty vague and shitty but I tried.**

 **I'm a big fan of stories that show the boys from an outsider's perspective, and I think I could do something like that for all the strangers Sam interacted with in this chapter. Tell me if that sounds like something you'd want me to write.**

 **also can you imagine the police showing up and finding a trash bag full of vomit in the bushes because Sam forgot to bring it to a dumpster lol**


End file.
